


Partisan

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - World War II, Community: au_bingo, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling through the night air, the grumble of the plane receding above him, occupied France somewhere below him -- he has a map, but it's large-scale and he recognised none of the placenames -- and three-two-one <i>ripcord</i>, and that moment of absolute calm before the parachute blooms above his head, rippling and booming in the slipstream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partisan

It's not the first time he's felt this sense of freedom.

Falling through the night air, the grumble of the plane receding above him, occupied France somewhere below him -- he has a map, but it's large-scale and he recognised none of the placenames -- and three-two-one _ripcord_ , and that moment of absolute calm before the parachute blooms above his head, rippling and booming in the slipstream.

There is, at this point, nothing whatsoever that Eames can do to affect his situation. He merely hangs there, the harness a little uncomfortable but nothing to write home about, and waits for the ground to come up and meet him. There are no lights above or below him: it's new moon, and overcast, and the countryside towards which he's drifting is apparently devoid of civilisation.

He lands hard, on terrain that seems to have rather more than its share of boulders: he's pretty sure that he's buggered his ankle, and his ribs feel as though he's been kicked. Adding insult to injury, a gust of wind catches the parachute and drags him through a bramble-thicket, and he doesn't get his arm up in time to save himself from a scratch across his temple. Blood drips into his eyes.

Right. Get the parachute bundled away; get the map out, and strike a match for long enough to check it against the compass. (While he's at it, he may as well have a cigarette.) He doesn't have much in the way of medical kit with him, and if he hangs around for too long then first aid will be a moot point: their Resistance contact had warned, in his last transmission, of a worrying increase in German patrols. Besides, it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. Might as well get moving.

Eames finds the road more by luck than judgement. It's more of a cart-track, and the rutted clay nearly trips him. Still, it's more or less where he expected, and he turns west, away from the nearest village and towards the house of the man he's here to meet.

The cottage is tiny and dark. There's no smoke from the chimney, no dog in the yard. On the other hand, it's the only house he's seen for miles, and if it's deserted then damn it, he's going to break in out of the cold and get a few hours' kip.

He taps on the door, three quick one slow, three quick one slow. (Good old Beethoven.) And he's bloody knackered after a long flight and a long walk and perfidious French vegetation, so it's hardly surprising that he leans against the door for a moment to catch his breath, and measures his length on cold flagstones when the door opens.

"Monsieur Arceneau?" he says muzzily, blinking up into the darkness, which becomes even darker when the door clicks shut again. He hears a key turn in the lock: then there's a flicker of a match, and the warm light of a lantern that makes his eyes water.

"Your accent's appalling," says a man's voice, in English. "I can't believe they let you out alone if that's the best you can manage."

"I'm desolated," says Eames, in French. "I've come a long way to see you, supposing that you are indeed Monsieur Arceneau, and your welcome isn't as warm as I might have hoped."

"You're wounded," says the man, staring down at him. Eames blinks him into focus. Dark hair, sharp bones, a mouth that's curiously soft at the corners as though -- despite his current po-faced expression -- he's in the habit of smiling often.

"Scratches," says Eames. "I cocked up my landing." He takes the man's proffered hand, and is hauled with unexpected ease to his feet. "Banged up my ankle a bit, too," Eames adds, belatedly, as he staggers.

The Frenchman is really much stronger than he looks: he steadies Eames (who'd actually like nothing more right now than to be _held_ : but that's shock and exhaustion, nothing more) and holds the lantern high in his other hand.

"I'm Arthur Arceneau," he tells Eames. "And you've been lucky to get this far. We have to be careful: they've been watching the house. But there's bread and soup, and somewhere to sleep, and I'll clean you up a bit."

Eames is much revived by his repast, not to mention the brandy that accompanies it, and he watches hazily as Monsieur Arceneau -- "Arthur, please." -- straps up his ankle and his ribs, swipes his face with water and then iodine, and generally tidies him up. He's shivering, though, and Arthur's hands are even colder than Eames' own skin.

"Can't light a fire," says Arthur, nodding at the reeking paraffin stove that heated their dinner. "Chimney's blocked. That's all there is."

"What'll you do when winter comes?"

Arthur shrugs. "Move on," he says. "Or find company."

Eames likes the way that Arthur looks at him when he says that last. But he's not here to ... well, to flirt. He reaches into his jacket and extracts the oilskin packet that's been entrusted to him. His own forged identity papers fall to the floor, and Arthur scoops them up.

"Good work," he decrees at last. "Whoever made these has an eye for detail."

"Why, thank you," says Eames, letting his appreciation of the compliment show.

"Though 'commissaire' usually has two ems."

"Bugger," says Eames.

"Don't worry," says Arthur. He picks up the knife he used to cut the bread, and for a brief panicky moment Eames is convinced that he's fatally misjudged the situation: but no, Arthur's merely pricking his thumb and letting a single fat drop of blood fall on the offending area of the _carte d'identite_.

"Smear it," says Arthur, thrusting the document at Eames. "It'll look better if the fingerprints are yours."

Eames does as he's told, vexed at himself for making such an elementary mistake. But the rest of the paperwork he's brought for Arthur -- and, via him, the local Resistance -- passes inspection, and Arthur's smiling when he looks up at last.

"Excellent work," he says. "You're an artist, Mr Eames."

"Captain Eames," says Eames, rather apologetically. "Used to get sixpence for forging the masters' signatures at school: I've had plenty of practice."

"I'll know where to come," says Arthur, "if I need ... anything."

The silence stretches, becomes awkward, and Eames can't bear the tension. "Well," he says, faking a yawn that abruptly becomes real. "I'm for whatever bed you can offer me. It's a long road to Lille."

The bed is nothing more than a thin mattress and a pile of blankets in an alcove beyond the stove. The blankets are clean but threadbare: they smell faintly of Arthur, and of coal-tar soap. This is also the smell of Arthur's skin warming against Eames' own, though soon enough the bedding smells of sweat and sex.

Afterwards, Eames curls against Arthur and presses his face against the other's shoulder. It's a long time since he's spent a night with a comrade-in-arms, but it still quenches a need that he barely acknowledges even to himself. He misses the symmetry of a man's strong hard body against his own, roughness and passion and anger and this strange softness, afterwards.

"I wish ..." murmurs Arthur drowsily into Eames' neck.

"Maybe," whispers Eames. "Maybe, after the war ..."

He doesn't dare finish the sentence.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed Arthur's surname from [sho_no_tabi](sho-no-tabi.livejournal.com), without permission -- sorry! But it felt very right while I was typing.  
> Background reading for this was mostly from the BBC archive [The People's War](http://www.bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar/), plus Wikipedia.  
> There's a sequel to this one ...


End file.
